


Ballad of a Dead Star

by queeryuki



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Musical Kuroshitsuji: -The Most Beautiful DEATH in The World- Sen no Tamashii to Ochita Shinigami, OTP Feels, Shinigami, Terminal Illnesses, Thorns of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeryuki/pseuds/queeryuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Alan was diagnosed with Thorns of Death, his lover Eric has been acting guiltily and it isn’t long before Alan realizes something is terribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballad of a Dead Star

**Author's Note:**

> Alan and Eric are my OTP~ The title is inspired by Alan’s character song. You’ll notice continuity in my Kuroshitsuji fics, like the deal Eric and Grell made trying to cure Alan’s disease happens in Flaming For Red (Grell/Angelina). I’m sorry, this oneshot is really sad. I recommend checking out the fluffy Alan/Eric fic “Aprons and Olive Oil” on ff.net to allay your feels.

Alan enjoyed many things, and fretting was not one of them. At three in the morning, he should be asleep cradled in his lover’s arms. However, one key thing was missing: Eric.

He lifted the teacup to his lips but set it down abruptly, the cold liquid providing no comfort. It had been sitting there for at least a half-hour untouched while Alan stared at the door. It didn’t matter how tired his eyes grew; Eric still had not returned and the door stayed firmly closed. His fingers clenched the cup handle rather than allowing himself to sigh or pout.

Alan should definitely be asleep by now. Even after changing into gray sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt, setting his glasses on the bedside table next to the lube, and snuggling under the blankets until only his face was visible, he just couldn’t relax enough for sleep. He was tired, but he couldn’t help peeking at the door at five-minute intervals. His ears remained attuned to sounds outside the door, but after Ronald returned from the bar around one, voices had ceased. He expected footsteps down the hallway and a hand to turn his doorknob, but he was still waiting.

After they ate at a human restaurant, Eric left for another late-night reaping. In fact, he had told Alan not to wait up for him. But sleeping by himself was just…lonely.

The Thorns were on his mind. It wasn’t the disease itself that scared him but the threat it represented. He didn’t know how to contend with his death. There was so much to live for, so much to _do_ , that dying…again…

Alan rummaged in his desk after the vision had passed. He thought these vivid scenes were part of his disease, for surely he had not lived a past life as a human. Other shinigami never mentioned flashbacks from hundreds of years ago, so he didn’t think they were real. Just another way for the Thorns to demoralize him; making him weaker not only physically but attacking his very soul.

Today the scene he recorded in his diary was that of a man chained to a dirty wall, throat parched and clothes ragged. Brother Alan had been whipped and tongue-lashed while shaking with poisonous hormones meant to cure him. He was losing everything that he was, and even worse, he was mired in sadness and loneliness. So he took a bite of an apple, and it slipped from his hand when his vision blurred and pain shot through his nerves.

Most shinigami were aloof about religion, being close to gods themselves, but when they mentioned Alan’s faith he would remember that man devoting his life to God with other brown-cloaked men in their beautiful stone church.

He had recorded enough visions by now that Alan understood what had been the downfall of the monk with his name, and he was terrified to watch Brother Alan’s body and mind fall apart. It reminded him of his own illness.

There had been a page that Brother Alan mentored and their relationship became intimate. Their love had been branded sinful and an outrage against God, breaking his sacred vows of celibacy-and with a child, a boy-but Alan felt his Lord encouraged it. Oh…the way those golden locks shone in the sunlight…his dimples as he smiled; where was the debauchery in that?

The boy must have been so lonely with his monk scorned and locked away, craving death.

And Eric. He would be so distraught without Alan; what would comfort him? Gin, quite possibly. Alan bit his lip and prayed, giving his worry to the Lord, believing that He watched over shinigami too.

Reaching for a Dickens Christmas story, Alan smoothed open the old pages but couldn’t quite focus on the words. Anything short of sleep was a useless distraction. If he didn’t talk to Eric about his worries they wouldn’t go away.

He had even tried to visit Grell-they’d been friends before Eric had been his senpai-but she was unusually absent from her room. Grell was still suspended because of the havoc she had caused with her dead lover as Jack the Ripper, and rather than letting other shinigami see the heart that beat behind her elaborate mask, Grell was apt to disappear and twine lycoris flowers around Angelina’s grave when feeling particularly mournful and lonely.

Alan’s thoughts keep drifting to the look on Eric’s beautiful green eyes earlier that night, before he left for his reaping. There was something…off about his expression. He couldn’t quite meet Alan’s eyes as his own flinched with worry. What could Eric be hiding from him?

His faith in his suitor was absolute. There was no question of Eric being with another man. But why were his reapings so long? Only Alan cared enough about the humans to spend time evaluating their ability to change the world for the better. And the late-night reapings were supposed to be shared between shinigami, so why had they all been piled on Eric?

This was the fifth solitary night, and the strain was starting to affect Alan’s performance at work. It took him longer to fill out paperwork because it was a struggle to stay awake. He actually hadn’t slept last night; Eric hadn’t returned until eight in the morning because he had fought a demon. Thankfully, he had escaped unscathed, but the soul had been lost. The blood Alan smelled on Eric proved that he had been fighting, but he couldn’t have faced a different demon five days in a row.

A yawn escaped from Alan’s mouth, one Eric would definitely have found cute. He rested his head on the mahogany desk and his eyes fluttered shut.

The next time Alan looked at the clock, it was four AM. His strained eyes strayed to Eric’s discarded work uniform from yesterday at the foot of their bed, which was crumpled and wrinkled and definitely in need of some ironing. Feeling relieved to have a useful task, Alan unfolded the ironing board from the closet and draped the dress pants over it. Before he let the iron warm up, he heard footsteps in the hallway.

It was Eric. It had to be.

Yet he heard a female voice too. An angry one.

“I knew you would be the one to slip up!” Grell snapped at Eric, failing to keep her voice hushed. “Why would you take it so literally? One thousand nights-”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Eric whispered, incensed. “But the first time I heard that snap…”

“I’m not going to renege on my promise, but it would be better if I did this alone,” Grell interrupted. “There isn’t time for you to sit there crying over every soul.”

“No,” Eric barked. “I’ve listened to your advice so back the fuck off. This is my duty.”

After what Alan imagined was an epic stare-down, Grell sniffed and turned on her heel, slamming her door closed like punctuation.

His curiosity peaked, Alan puzzled over their conversation. And what was Grell doing returning with Eric? She wasn’t allowed to reap yet. Something wasn’t right about this.

Alan quickly threw the covers over himself and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He couldn’t lie to Eric, but Alan didn’t want to make him guilty either. The doorknob slowly creaked open. Yes, Eric was trying not to wake him. Alan opened one eye, the faint luminescence confirming the presence of his love.

Eric’s breathing was heavy, or maybe it was just that it had been so silent for hours before. His eyes were averted as if in thought as his suit jacket slid onto the floor. Precisely the reason all his clothes were unkempt! Alan jerked upright in bed as he noticed the glistening tear tracks down Eric’s stubbly face.

“Eric? What’s wrong?”

Eric froze, looking guilty as hell. He groped for words for a minute. “I…you’re awake?”

Alan sighed, sliding out of bed and padding over to Eric in his slippered feet. “We need to talk.” Eric looked alarmed, eyes darting over Alan’s face. “You’ve been acting really weird lately.”

Eric visibly relaxed, forcing out a soft chuckle. “I’ve just been worried about you, princess. I’m fine. Really.”

Usually Alan would have let it go, but Eric’s assurance sounded forced. “Then why am I worried about _you_? We need to be getting more sleep. I’m going to have to talk to Mr. Spears about your reaping schedule of late.”

“You don’t have to do that,” He said quickly. “Today’s the last late-night reaping. And anyway…I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been stopping at a few pubs before coming home. Seeing you sick breaks my heart.”

Alan was silent for a minute. He trusted Eric, but those answers seemed faked. There was something wrong and if he kept pushing he would find out what it was. “Is that what you were doing with Grell tonight?”

Eric’s mouth opened then closed, and he turned away from Alan. His voice was deeper and tinged with some dark emotion. “Please don’t ask about that.”

Alan’s stomach dropped with all the worry and suspicion he felt. “What were you doing?” He demanded, placing a hand on Eric’s shoulder to turn him back to him.

Instead of relaxing into his touch, Eric flinched and stepped away, and the hand that hung between them was a chasm. “Please. Don’t touch me,” He pleaded, breathing raggedly. “Not now. I don’t deserve that.” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his thick hair.

Alan felt his eyes moisten with tears. What awful thing was Eric doing that made him so guilty? His mind sifted through snippets of conversation. _One thousand nights. Crying over souls. Worried about your sickness._

“Oh god…” Alan breathed, not wanting to comprehend. His hands started to shake and it hurt even more so that he couldn’t reach out and enfold himself in his lover’s body. “What have you _done_?”

One thousand souls upon one thousand nights. He couldn’t believe that. Alan would rather be oblivious, as long as Eric enveloped him in his arms and kissed him in a field of ericas and pretended everything was still carefree like before he was diagnosed with Thorns of Death.

Teardrops trembled on Eric’s lashes. “I can’t let you die,” He whispered, desperate eyes pleading with Alan.

Alan took an unsteady step back, feeling for the first time that instead of looking at his other half he was looking at a monster. He covered his face and tears dripped between his fingers. If what he suspected was true…it would be easier to hate Eric, to leave him. Yet even after Grell had torn apart the wombs of innocent women, Alan had forgiven her. But if Eric was killing…for _him_ …well, then that was different, wasn’t it?

That sin became personal.

“Whatever you’re doing, you have to _stop_ ,” Alan pleaded, heart pounding with fear and sorrow.

Eric shook his head disbelievingly. “I can’t lose you, Alan. You’re my star, my light.”

Hearing their ballad used as justification hollowed out Alan. “Please. Go. I can’t be with you tonight.”

Eric moaned, and instead of cupping his face Alan kept his hands by his side and looked away, shoulders shaking with silent tears. “You’re not…leaving me?”

“I love you, Eric, and I cherish our relationship. But if you keep lying to me and become ensnared in sin, you’ll lose me anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric repeated, clenching his hands into fists. “I’m so sorry. But that’s the one promise I can’t make.” He wrenched open Alan’s door and was swallowed by the darkness of the hallway.

Alan leaned against his door, chest heaving, imagining the man he loved so well swinging his saw through the stomachs of innocent humans, stealing their souls and tallying them up in the misguided hope that it could cure him. How many people had he killed already? Ten? Twenty? One hundred? Alan’s stomach churned as he pictured an innocent woman lying in a pool of her own blood as Eric held her soul and smiled triumphantly. And, horror beyond horror-was _Grell_ involved too?

Was there no one he could trust?

Alan sank to his knees in despair. His world was falling apart. Suddenly his chest felt caught in a vise and he gasped for air, panicking. His body was seized with pain and his skin felt slick with blood as it was enveloped by Thorns of Death. An attack. Now? He was locked in the throes of agony alone. Alan reached towards the doorknob then realized there was no one he could call to for help.

_Don’t fight it, Alan. If you’re dead, Eric would stop killing. Everyone betrayed you, so now you truly are alone, like you always were._

A tear slipped down his throat and the Thorns wrapped him in darkness.


End file.
